


Oh, Devil

by undieshogun



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Both Robin and The Hierophant Survive AU, Female My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Other, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undieshogun/pseuds/undieshogun
Summary: This is different. This blue sky, this open field, this gentle wind, this person sitting in front of her with her eyes, her hair, her dark, haunted expression...this is real. She is awake.They both are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've done it again 
> 
> and by "it" i mean "completed an actual fic instead of leaving it to die forgotten in the depths of my gdocs"
> 
> and it's a big one, too!!! i'll be updating a new chapter once every several days, maybe once every week. please enjoy. 
> 
> find me on twitter @shiirasagi

They wake side by side. 

When their eyes meet, Robin wonders at first if she is still dreaming. 

But she remembers those dreams, for it was only moments ago that she was trapped in that never-ending, eternally looping vision--where everything was dark and she saw nothing and heard nothing, only felt the dull throb of Falchion’s blade in her chest, the cold burn of its sacred flames smoldering her blood in her veins, her worldly body fading into the ether--

This is different. This blue sky, this open field, this gentle wind, this person sitting in front of her with her eyes, her hair, her dark, haunted expression...this is real. She is awake. 

They both are. 

The only visible difference between them is in the scars: two short, curved slits lined across each of the other’s cheeks. Robin shudders.

“Grima,” she whispers, the name stinging against the back of her throat. It tastes of ashes on her tongue. 

But the other doesn’t react. All she can seem to do is stare back at Robin, dazed, lost and--empty. 

(Robin thinks for a second that she might have spotted a flash of the bright red gleam in those eyes she’s come to know so well, but finds herself wondering if it was only her imagination.) 

“You’re Grima,” she says, louder, and her voice scrapes again in her throat. “You’re--” 

The other shivers violently against some invisible wind, bringing her arms up around herself. Robin’s gaze moves automatically, searching (dreading, but also hoping in some dark, bitter corner of her mind)--but her eyes fall on unmarked skin. Hurriedly, she brings her own hands up to her face, turning them over and then back again. 

Neither of them bears the mark. 

But no...Robin looks up again, at the scars marring the other’s face, the disfigured skin red and raised as if it might split open again at any moment. This is proof of the difference between them. Struck by a sudden, terrible thought, she raises her hand again and reaches towards her own cheek, but then pauses, frozen. 

The other’s eyes have not moved away from her even once, wide and unfocused. What is it that she sees? 

Robin swallows.  _ I am not Grima _ , she reminds herself, willing her hand to move.  _ I never was. _

Her hand shakes as her fingertips graze her cheek. The skin there is smooth. 

Robin’s breath leaves her in a rush, relief swelling in her chest on the next inhale. She closes her eyes and, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, lets herself believe that she is all right. 

-:-

For a while, they wander along the outskirts of Ylisstol, moving from town to town but never entering the capital. Robin isn’t yet ready to see Chrom, doesn’t know what to expect--doesn’t know what she would tell him. 

She and Grima walk hand in hand, with Robin leading Grima along. It seems as though there is no other way, for the other doesn’t appear to ever grasp that Robin wants her to follow otherwise. 

In fact, Robin quickly becomes unsure just how much of this person, Grima or otherwise, remains in its vessel. She doesn’t speak, never seems to comprehend anything spoken toward her, and rarely reacts to anything--except when Robin takes her hand, upon which she always holds on so tightly Robin wonders if she is trying to crush something out of her. 

“Your name is Grima,” Robin reminds her every day, mostly just to fill the silence between them, as they walk the streets of Ylisse’s farming towns in search of their next meal. “You tried to destroy this world,” she says. “You took everything from me.” 

But Grima never replies, just holds onto Robin’s hand. Her skin is cold and grows damp against Robin’s, but she never seems to care as much as Robin does.

Everyone gives them strange looks, whether it is due to their shared appearance or the scars on Grima’s face; but nobody seems to recognize them, and nobody asks them where they are from. 

“The war?” said an old man Robin stopped on the outskirts of a village on the first day after they'd woken in the field. “Why, my dear, it’s been ages since all the fighting ended!” 

“How long, exactly?” Robin asked, trying to hide how irritated she was that the old man hadn’t just told her outright. 

“Well, I’d say around six or seven months,” the old man replied. He squinted up at Robin. “You been travellin’, or summat?” 

And because Robin didn’t know how else to reply, she simply said, “Yes. Something like that,” and then took Grima’s hand and moved on. 

That was three weeks ago, Robin recalls as she makes her way through a new town, keeping an eye out for an inn where she can make a temporary home. 

Money has been surprisingly easy to come by. All Robin has to do is offer her services as a carpenter, a mage, or a mercenary--in a kingdom still recovering from the ravages of war, every town is bound to need at least one of those. In fact, it’s so simple Robin imagines she could spend the rest of her life like this, unknown and unburdened with the battles she’s fought, the things she’s seen. 

If only she did not have to wake up every morning beside a living ghost. 

They stop at a small, family-run inn at the edge of town, where it is quieter and there are fewer people. The inn-keeper is a jovial young girl with big, round eyes and a kind smile. She reminds Robin of Lissa, and doesn’t look to be any older than her either. 

“Sure, I’ve got a room for you and your sister,” she says when Robin approaches her at the bar. “Nice to be travelling with family. Not a lot of people get that kind of opportunity any more after a war, huh?” 

The next morning, Robin discovers during a quiet, early morning conversation over breakfast that the girl lost her parents and two elder siblings during the first war with Plegia. 

_ Family _ . She turns the word over and over in her head. She thinks about Validar, about her mother whose name she never knew, about Aversa. She thinks about Chrom. 

And she looks at Grima, who stares back at her with eyes wide and innocent. The inn-keeper had called them sisters--of course. Robin would have looked stupid trying to deny it. 

That night, as they lie across from each other, Robin feels the words threatening to rise up out of her again as they play over and over in her head, almost like a mantra ( _ Your name is Grima your name is GrimayournameisGrima _ )--but then there is a pause as a strange realization surfaces amongst the jumble of everything else. The name she knows well enough now, but she finds herself asking,  

“What are you?”  

-:-

As weeks pass and turn to months, Robin begins to wonder if she should just kill Grima.

And more often than not, on long nights when images of red skies and battlefields razed with fire keep her awake, she finds herself desperately wishing to. 

It would be so easy, she realizes, to do it as Grima sleeps, to simply raise her hand over the other’s prone figure and thrust a magically charged bolt straight through her heart. 

If only she had been so strong when it truly counted. 

On the nights she does sleep, she dreams. 

But the dreams of the living are not easily remembered upon waking. They are as life itself--ephemeral, deceptive, and too complex to find any true meaning in. 

And so Robin continues to remember the dreams that haunted her in death, instead. 

She remembers the final battle--the sharp, unrelenting bite of the cold air that scratched against her cheeks as she and her comrades fought for their lives and their homes and their families on the great back of the Fell Dragon as it soared across the sky, hundreds of feet above ground. She remembers their cries of determination, fury, and desperation as they met wave after wave of Grima’s undead army, the clash of steel and silver and the shrill ring of magic in the air. 

She remembers the moment it had all disappeared, faded into silence and into darkness as she watched Chrom drive the Exalted Falchion towards Grima’s heart and realized suddenly--she had made the wrong choice. 

Her body had moved on its own then, she was sure then and is sure again every time she remembers, and it was in the exact second that both her Thoron bolt and Chrom’s Exalted Falchion pierced Grima’s heart that she truly did become one with the Fell Dragon, felt both the burn of the magic summoned from her own hand tearing her apart from the inside and the flaming blade in Chrom’s rending flesh and shattering bone. 

She never even had the chance to say goodbye. 

And in those moments after she remembers (whether it is during one of those long sleepless nights or in the middle of the day when the brightness of the sun she had gone so long without has spellbound her into a temporary daze), she reaches up towards her chest, burrows her hand beneath her shirt, and brushes her fingers over the two large scars resting across each other beneath her collarbone. And Robin looks at Grima, who looks back with eyes wide and unassuming, and once again loses all sense of certainty. 

-:-

Yet in the face of all that is unknown to Robin, the one thing that baffles her most is Grima's complete and utter trust in her.

Is it because they look similar, or because Robin was the first person Grima saw when she woke? Or perhaps, Robin fears, there is part of Grima that still does remember who she is and knows that they are the same person. Grima has only ever trusted herself--does she believe that Robin will come through when the time comes, despite her previous betrayal that nearly (should have) cost both of them their lives?

And it is indeed odd when Robin realizes one night, as she watches Grima sleep in the cot next to her, that she trusts Grima as well. There was not one moment since the day they awoke that she feared Grima might try to end her the moment she turned her back. It's almost as if this person and the Fell Dragon truly are two different beings.

As Robin rolls over and closes her eyes, she lets herself believe for the short moment before she drifts off that the Fell Dragon truly is gone.

 

It's still dark when she wakes; she can sense it, for it was not the light of dawn that woke her, but the sound of movement and the weight on her stomach.

Robin snaps her eyes open and nearly screams aloud when she sees Grima's face hovering over hers.

"What are you doing?" she whispers fiercely, squirming beneath Grima's weight. "Get off me!"

But Grima merely leans down and wraps her arms around Robin, burying her face in her shoulder.

Robin manages to free a hand to push against Grima's chest. "I'm telling you to get off! What's gotten into you?"

Grima holds her in a crushing grip, as if she's trying to suffocate her. For a moment, Robin panics--has she remembered everything after all?

But then, she notices something. Grima is trembling--shaking like a leaf and holding onto Robin as if her life depends on it. She seems...disturbed. Robin would even be tempted to guess that Grima might be afraid, if not for the fact that the other had not displayed a single emotion so far during their time together.

Instinctively, Robin sweeps her gaze around the room. It's empty, as far as she can tell. There are no suspicious figures lurking in the shadows, and the door is still shut tight and locked securely.

"There's no one here but us," she says, hoping Grima can understand her. "Everything's fine."

Still, Grima refuses to release her.

Robin sighs softly. Then again, perhaps this was a fortunate distraction. She wasn't exactly getting the most restful sleep before this.

The thought makes her pause as a suspicion arises. "...You have those dreams too, don't you? The ones where you--where we die."

Then, a movement so slight Robin almost misses it--Grima nods. It is the first time Grima has shown any sign that she actually comprehends speech. But then again, Robin realizes, it's also the first time Robin has actually spoken properly to her.

Robin swallows. "They're just dreams," she says quietly, almost gently. "They're not..." She stops. To say the dreams aren't real would technically be a lie. The two of them did, after all, experience it. Robin amends her statement. "It's all in the past now. Nothing can hurt us again, not like that."

Grima takes in a stuttered breath, her chest jumping against Robin's. She doesn't protest as Robin shifts beneath her and guides her onto the cot, but she grasps Robin's arm as the other pulls away.

"Relax. I'm not going anywhere," Robin murmurs, and tries not to think about how wrong it feels to be soothing her mortal enemy as one would calm a fussing child.

Grima apparently shares none of these sentiments, for she merely settles in close to Robin, their noses touching as they share the single pillow on the cot. She looks neither happy nor sad as she stares at Robin, just blank; and the blankness is strange now, as it's become apparent to Robin that Grima does feel emotion. If she weren't so tired, she would be fascinated enough to pursue her curiosity on the matter.

"Go to sleep," is all Robin says instead.

And then, another new development--Grima obeys, closing her eyes.

Robin watches her for a while with a strange sort of transfixion that she can't seem to break. This is the closest they've ever been, and from here she can see every detail of Grima's face.

In a way, it's more like looking at a stranger than into a mirror. Robin never knew her own face particularly well--she had, of course, forgotten all but her name on the day Chrom found her lying in a field, and that included her appearance as well. Being launched into a war (and then another after that, and then essentially a third after that as well) didn't exactly give her all the time in the world to explore her own appearance. Nor did she ever pay any special attention to it; the most she ever did was make sure she looked clean and (fairly) neat. She knew her hair best, for she brushed and fashioned it into her signature pigtails every day, but the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that her face is only familiar to her in that she knows it's her own when she sees it.

So she stares at Grima's, taking it all in for the what feels like first time. Thin eyebrows, short lashes, a pointed nose and thin lips pulled tight as if to keep in something threatening to break out--all sitting atop a dusky complexion. After this short moment of observation, Robin suddenly comes to find that the features they share all seem to be rather...bare. She wonders if she's ever seen a plainer face in her life.

At the very least, that's how she imagines her own face to be. Grima, of course, bears the scars on her cheeks from the time she spent as the Fell Dragon's vessel. Two of them run in long, jagged lines from the bottom lids of her eyes all the way down to her jaw, and across those lie the crescent-shaped marks where the dragon's additional four eyes opened on the day the two of them became one.

Unable to help herself, Robin reaches up and brushes the pads of her fingers lightly against the scars. She pauses, watching to see if she has disturbed Grima, but the other appears to already be in a deep sleep. Unhindered, Robin resumes her observations. The raised skin of the scars is rough and unpleasant to the touch, though she notices that their color has dulled somewhat compared to the angry red they were on the day they awoke.

She wonders if it was painful, being the vessel to a creature of pure malevolence. To be surrounded by such twisted, evil magic all the time--to breathe it in every waking moment and feel it filling your veins until it snuffed out your own essence...she wonders if that could ever be worth the power it granted. And did it hurt, Robin wants to ask, did her face bleed when those eyes tore open the skin on her cheeks to grant her new sight?

The past, the present, and the future--the great Fell Dragon claimed that it saw all of these, yet it had not been able to foresee its own demise.

In the end, this person lying at Robin's side, now stripped of everything she once had, had suffered all of that for nothing.

Pity fills Robin's heart. It amazes her to realize now, as she lies in the dark stroking these scars in an almost soothing fashion, that she never even stopped to ask: Whoever this person was before she was Grima--did she ever truly want all that had come to pass?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this concept came to me...........so long ago that i dont remember exactly where it came from sorry. it'll come back to me. i hope you guys enjoyed this :,) 
> 
> title taken from [the song by Electric Guest](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWc9hvNV3ko)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are again....thanks for reading guys!!! please enjoy 
> 
> you can find me on twitter @shiirasagi

Miriel finds her by chance. 

“I suspected you were the wandering mercenary mage I’d been hearing about,” is the first thing Miriel says to her. The scholar hefts her glasses up, but Robin didn’t miss the way her eyes had widened fractionally in utter disbelief when their gazes had met from opposite sides of the main street in this busy merchant town. 

Robin smiles, subdued. She almost feels a little shy; she hadn’t expected to meet anyone from the army any time soon--least of all Miriel, who everyone knew had never left the capital borders until the war. 

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Robin says, and with good reason. 

The modest academic’s robes Miriel wore during most of the war, practical and nondescript, have been replaced by flowing, intricately embroidered sage’s robes dyed in rich black and plum hues. They hang from her narrow shoulders like a tapestry, swallowing her figure. Robin glances down and sees thin wrists peeking out of the wide sleeves, slender fingers enclosed around an untitled tome, and surmises that not much has changed. 

Miriel always made more time for her research than she did for her meals. She would spend hours in the night poring over ancient writings, often in the same tent or library where Robin could be found composing strategy. Few people in the army ever came to understand Miriel, but everyone had grown to respect her and value her talents throughout the war. In this respect, she and Robin had always been quite similar. 

Perhaps that is the reason why, instead of turning defensive when Miriel’s gaze lands on Grima, Robin asks for her help instead. It is a quiet plea, said with eyes cast down and a murmur from her lips. She has never been good at asking others for help. 

Yet Miriel takes it to heart, as she does with most other things in life. She stares at Grima for a long time, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. She doesn't appear to care that they're standing in the middle of the road, or that Robin and Grima are both growing restless under her survey. Time has always seemed to pass differently for Miriel.

Eventually, though, she gives a small nod, though Robin isn't sure what it is she has just confirmed.

"Come with me," she says without offering an explanation, and begins walking briskly down the road, in the direction of where she'd come from.

Robin glances at Grima, whose expression remains blank as ever but for the slight pursing of her lips. "Let's go," she says, ignoring Grima's reluctance and tugging her along. She doesn't give herself time to wonder what it is that Grima is acting so apprehensive about.

Miriel leads them down the main road, and it takes but a moment for Robin to realize they're headed for the town square. As they continue on, Grima’s reluctance becomes steadily more apparent with the way she pulls against Robin’s grasp, as if to urge her to turn back around. 

“Settle down,” Robin hisses. She finds she has very little patience all of a sudden, this unexpected encounter with an old friend having disoriented her somewhat. She turns back towards Miriel, who is walking just a bit ahead of her. 

"This place is pretty far from the capital," Robin says, half to distract herself from Grima’s fussing and half out of genuine curiosity to find out what Miriel is doing here.

Miriel, however, either doesn't get the hint or ignores it. "It is about two days' ride on horseback from the royal palace, yes," she replies in her usual matter-of-fact tone.

Robin should have predicted this reply. Then again, it has been nearly a year since she last spoke to Miriel, though Miriel acts as though they only saw each other yesterday. She tries again, this time by merely asking straight out: "What are you doing out here? Are you still working with the Shepherds?"

"Yes," Miriel replies. "I am conducting research on Exalt Chrom's behalf."

Robin’s eyebrows go up at that. "Chrom? He ordered you to come all the way out here for your research?"

Miriel stops abruptly then, causing Robin to nearly walk right into her. After catching herself, Robin looks up to see what it is that stopped Miriel in her tracks.

The street they were walking on has opened out into a large, open square. Along the outer edges of the square is an assortment of shops, inns, and restaurants that bustle with activity. The atmosphere is lively and warm; it’s been a while since Robin saw so many people in one space. In the center of the square, however, is a sight she is quite sure she’s never come across. 

Before them stands a gargantuan tower sitting dead in the middle of the town square. It stands at what Robin estimates to be over ten stories tall, its exterior built in a cylindrical fashion with what appears to be pure white marble. A pair of gold-gilded double doors marks the entrance to the tower, but there is no sign or other indication of what exactly the tower itself is.

The strangest part about it is that it looks nothing like any of the other buildings in this small trading town, for those are all built from bricks and mortar--or, for the poorest of those living here, logs and clay. Yet none of the townspeople seem to spare it so much as a single glance.

It takes a moment for Robin to pick her jaw up off the ground. "What in the blazes am I looking at here?"

"A library," is Miriel’s unreasonably simple answer.

"That...is not a library," Robin replies with certainty. Beside her, Grima grows even more restless, shuffling closer to her as if for protection.

"It is the oldest library in existence," Miriel says with equal certainty--and knowing her, she actually has the evidence to base it on. "Records say it was built by the gods themselves, as one of their final gifts to mankind before they left this realm."

Robin stares at the smooth, polished marble and doesn't see a single chip or scrape. If anything, there is a strange, powerful sort of aura that seems to surround the building, though she can't quite place why the feeling is so familiar to her. "It doesn't look very old to me," she mutters.

"It is preserved by the same magic that preserves Falchion's blade," Miriel says. "Which also keeps it hidden from prying or untrained eyes."

“Then what do those untrained eyes see when they look at this spot?” Robin has to ask. 

This time, Miriel actually pauses for a short moment before replying. “That is a question I plan on finding the answer to at a later date, as I currently have other priorities. My working theory is that there is some sort of powerful illusion in place that gives off an impression of something considerably more...mundane”  

"So there's magic here," Robin murmurs, her gaze moving up the tower. Then, the thought strikes her. She turns to Grima. "Is that what's making you so nervous? Does this place give you the same feeling as Falchion, as well?"

Grima does not respond and merely remains huddled behind Robin.

Miriel frowns at Grima. "She doesn't speak?" she asks Robin.

"No," Robin replies. "But she does understand what we're saying...I think."

"Hm," Miriel hums in reply, looking pensive.

"Do you know something?" Robin asks, because she recognizes that look.

"I'm not certain yet, but there may be answers inside," Miriel replies. She beckons. "Come."

Robin tries to follow, but Grima holds her back once again, rooted in place with her hand clamped around Robin's wrist and looking at Robin with a beseeching gaze.

Robin sighs, trying to reign in her frustration. "Look, nothing in there is going to hurt you," she says. "I--ugh...I promise, okay? I won't...let anything happen to you."

Instead of showing any sort of response, Grima merely stares at her. She doesn't protest as Robin begins leading her towards the library doors, but Robin feels the other's hand shaking in hers.

Robin almost feels bad, but not enough to turn back. She knows an opportunity when she sees one--she doesn't plan on leaving this place until she's found the answers she's been looking for.

The great double doors open soundlessly, and when they step inside the library, it feels like entering a whole other world.

Shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls lined along a glistening marble floor greet the three of them as the doors close behind them without being touched. The walls around them seem to rise up for miles, taller in appearance than they looked from the outside. A staircase made of the same white marble and framed with a railing gilded in gold leans against the wall, snaking up towards the second floor, and Robin looks further up to see balconies ringed around the edges of each floor while an open center lends its view all the way to the domed ceiling of the tower. 

As Miriel leads them towards the far side of the room where the stairs are, Robin sees various reading lounges outfitted with plush armchairs and fireplaces scattered along the curved walls, but all of them appear to be empty. In fact, there is hardly anyone in this library at all; she spots three people in passing, all dressed in scholar's robes of some sort, and all absorbed in the tomes they are holding.

"This place is a lot emptier than I thought it would be," Robin remarks, keeping her voice low.

Even then, Miriel still shushes her softly and continues on without comment. As they follow Miriel up the stairs, Grima moves closer to Robin, trembling slightly.

It's so quiet as they make their way up the stairs, Robin catches herself holding her breath in several instances for fear of disturbing anyone. No one even spares them a second glance, which Robin has to admit is a new feeling for her. Most of the people they've come across so far have not been able to resist the urge to stare at Grima's scars.

But while there is something vaguely frightening about the near-suffocating serenity of the atmosphere, Robin also finds herself awestruck by the sheer amount of books in this library. Each floor is filled with the same fifteen-foot wooden shelves, stacked to bursting with all manner of books, most of which she's never seen before. Her curiosity grows, and as it does she realizes--she hasn't felt the urge to read in ages, but trust Miriel to bring her to the one place that's sparked the fire again even in the midst of everything she's been dealing with lately.

Miriel stops at what appears to be the second-to last floor of the tower, where rather than bookshelves, it is a series of oaken doors that line the walls. It comes as a relief to Robin when the other says quietly, “Here we are,” for Robin has counted a total of eleven staircases that they climbed, and all three of them had already become quite short of breath by the fourth. Robin imagines that whatever gods left this library to the people of the land had not accounted for how fragile humans tend to be. 

They pass by several of the doors, all closed and engraved with numbers in ascending order, before Miriel pauses in front of one engraved with the number 1214 on it to pull a small key out of her robes.

Robin blinks as she thinks vaguely of how this system reminds her of inn rooms, only to discover how close to her mark she was when Miriel unlocks the door and opens it to reveal a small living space outfitted with two cots, a narrow dresser, and a desk sitting beneath a window that looks out into the town square.

"You've been staying here?" Robin asks incredulously as she steps into the room at Miriel's invitation. Stacks and stacks of books, most of them nearly reaching up to the ceiling, take up most of the floor space in this tiny bedroom, and Robin can see very clearly how Miriel could be comfortable here. It is essentially what Robin always imagined to be the mage's own dream come true. "I've never seen a library like this."

"This library is enchanted with the power to provide its visitors with all that they seek and require," Miriel, who has already begun rustling through the tomes and documents littering her desk, replies vaguely. "Or so it is said."

Robin leads Grima over to one of the cots and sits her down atop the neatly made sheets. For once, Grima isn't so reluctant when Robin pulls away, as she seems equally amazed by the novelty of this room as Robin is. Perhaps there is still a part of what she used to be inside there, after all.

Robin examines some of the books stacked near the cot, gleaning what she can from the engravings on the spines; she doesn't dare touch anything for fear of sending it all toppling over. Most of the titles are written in languages she can't understand and has never even seen before, but she does recognize a few works pertaining to certain arcane illusion magics and the like.

"Say, Miriel," Robin says, turning towards the other, who is now crouched low over her desk as she scribbles furiously on a piece of parchment. "What exactly is it that Chrom sent you here to do?"

Miriel pauses in her aggressive administrations on the poor parchment to glance over her shoulder at Robin before her gaze moves over to Grima. She straightens her back, then adjusts her spectacles with a sniff before wordlessly handing what she's just written over to Robin.

Eyebrows raised, Robin takes the paper.

Phrases of the ancient language, scrawled in Miriel's slanted, sharp-edged cursive, encircle a symbol drawn with intricately interweaving lines that Robin doesn't recognize. She can tell, however, that this is the incantation for a spell.

"I'm...not following," Robin confesses. "Did you create this spell?"

"Hardly," Miriel replies. "It's something I arranged by altering and combining certain aspects of spells that already existed, most of them belonging to schools of arcane and long-forgotten magic."

"What does it do?"

"I don't know, because I haven't tried it. Theoretically, however, it should have the power to restore one's memories."

Robin gasps softly, looking back down at the spell. "Don't tell me Chrom intended to have you use this spell on me...?"

"I never asked, but it wasn't difficult to infer," Miriel confirms. "He was afraid that when you returned to us, you would have lost your memories once again. He could not bear the thought of letting you suffer such a loss."

"Miriel, I died that day. How could Chrom have known that he wasn't sending you on a pointless mission?"

Miriel frowns softly at that, and because Robin has known her long enough, she can read the deep disappointment held in the subtle gleam in Miriel’s eyes behind her spectacles. "You should know by now that Chrom is a man of unwavering faith," Miriel says. "You swore that you would return--he took it to heart. And as far as I can see, it appears as though you've kept your word."

"I guess so," Robin concedes. "But I don't think any of us was counting on me bringing back this extra...baggage."

Both of them turn to look at Grima, who is watching them silently.

"If I'm being frank, I wasn't expecting either you or Grima's hierophant to survive the final battle," Miriel confesses, remorseless as usual.

Robin chuckles weakly. "Ouch."

"She has no memories of who she is, does she?"

"No. I only discovered recently that she could even understand what I'm saying," Robin replies. She hands the spell back to Miriel. "Do you think you would be able to restore her memories with this?"

"Would that be a wise choice?" Miriel asks.

Robin hesitates at that. "I...don't have a clear answer for you regarding that. But I get the feeling what we find on the other side might not be what we're expecting."

Miriel takes a moment to place the spell back onto her desk before looking back at Robin. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you're saying."

Robin sighs softly. "This version of me lived under Grima's control. She was manipulated by an evil greater than any one person alone could be capable of. What if she was just as innocent as I was in all of this?"

"Do you have any evidence to base this reasoning on?" Miriel inquires, though not unkindly.

Robin shrugs, grimacing. "Intuition...? Look, even if she was out to get us, Grima is already dead, and there's nothing she can do about it."

"I think we both know very well that she could still be dangerous," Miriel says, still not moved. "She may technically be you, but there is too much we don't know about her." 

"Miriel--" Robin can't help but huff out a small laugh. "Chrom never let his faith in me falter, even after he found out I was destined to be his downfall. Don't you think she deserves a chance, too?"

Miriel wavers, her eyes softening for a brief moment. Then she shakes her head softly. "Perhaps you have a point. But even then...this spell isn't complete yet. I haven't tested it, and I need assistance in casting it in the first place. Restoring her memories will be a long and arduous process with uncertain results."

"I think we've all been through enough to know that that's how most pursuits in life are," Robin says. "Especially the most important ones."

Finally, Miriel smiles--a tiny pull at the corner of her mouth. "I suppose that's fair enough." Then, her expression turns inquisitive as she stares at Robin for a moment.

"What?"

"Your relationship with her is not what I expected," Miriel confesses. "I imagined you would detest her."

Robin rubs the back of her neck. "Me too, actually," she admits. "But it's a little hard to hate someone when you don't even know who they are anymore."

"In that case, I suggest you put a bit more thought into what our next move should be," Miriel says, her eyes narrowing. "If you believe restoring her to her former self will justify your feelings of frustration towards what Grima has done, then this may not be the best path to take."

"I--" Robin stutters, caught completely off-guard by Miriel's sudden bout of insight. She turns to look at Grima, who is fiddling with a small vial she must have picked up from the nightstand next to the cot. This is one of the few times Robin has witnessed Grima focusing on something other than her, but Grima glances up when she feels Robin’s gaze on her, and their eyes meet. 

This isn’t the first time Robin has expected, somewhere deep in the back of her mind, to see a familiar cold, hateful gaze--it also isn’t the first time she’s been met with something else entirely, something softer, more subdued. What was once a harsh and unpleasant reality has now turned into a distant (though no less traumatic) memory, but what she’s been left with is by no means a blessing of any sort. 

Robin sighs deeply. "Miriel, to be completely honest...I don't know what I'm hoping to gain from this, but I have to do  _ something _ . I can't just leave her like that."

Miriel seems to contemplate this for a moment, cocking her head slightly as her gaze moves between them, before giving a tiny nod in acquiescence. "Indeed...regardless of your own motives, you've always had an instinct for helping people. You have that much in common with Chrom, I suppose."

"So you'll help us?"

"Our goals are in line with each other," Miriel says. "Once I've restored the hierophant's memory, I will have succeeded in my own mission as well." 

Robin chuckles. As always, Miriel's shyness manifests in the most interesting of ways. "Thank you, Miriel. I appreciate it."

"Before you thank me, I'd like to ask that you do something for me in return."

"Sure," Robin replies without missing a beat. "Anything for an old friend."

"Tell me why you haven't let Chrom know of your return."

Robin's eyes widen and she hesitates, voice caught in her throat. Miriel watches her, waiting, but Robin avoids her gaze, electing to stare down at the ground instead.

Then, a loud, tinkling  _ crash _ from the other side of the room makes them both jump. They spin around to see Grima standing over a broken glass vial with a shocked expression on her face as some sort of dark, viscous solution spills over the marble floor.

"What is that?" Robin asks as Miriel rushes over to clean up the mess. She follows, pulling Grima aside and watching Miriel retrieve a thin wand hanging from her belt.

"I don't know," Miriel says. With a flick of the wand, the vial reassembles itself; with a second, the spilled liquid streams back into the vial. Miriel picks it up gingerly, then places it back on the nightstand Grima had apparently picked it up from. "The owner of this concoction is very secretive about her experiments."

Robin frowns and looks back up at the nightstand, where a myriad of other strange and eerie-looking potions and materials are scattered across the wooden surface. She spots what appears to be the large eye of some creature preserved in a clear solution, and next to that an unnaturally bright red solution that is actively bubbling despite being enclosed in a vial sealed with a cork. She averts her eyes, feeling uneasy. "Who exactly is it that you're staying with, anyway?" She's never known Miriel to willingly cohabitate with anyone--especially someone she didn't trust fully.

Before Miriel can give her an answer, the door to the room swings open.

"How many times have I told you not to touch my--"

The entire room falls into silence, and the first thing that strikes Robin is how much the person standing at the doorway has changed since the last time she saw her. Where there used to be the thin, sheer coverings of the Plegian dark mage uniform, cotton Ylissean sage's robes now hang from her shoulders. Her long, black hair is tied up in a high ponytail, bangs cut shorter than they used to be to reveal piercing, narrow dark eyes. Yet still, Robin recognizes her right away.

"Tharja," she breathes, her eyes suddenly filling with tears at the sight of her closest friend.

Tharja lurches, expression twisting into a shocked grimace when she sees Robin. "You! How...?"

Robin stands, offering a tentative smile. "I said I would come back, didn't I?"

Tharja's dark complexion blanches slightly. Then, without another word, she turns and stalks back out of the room.

"What--Tharja, hold on!" Robin looks back at Miriel. "What was that all about?"

"She's upset to see you," Miriel provides.

"No, I can see that," Robin snaps back with a sharp sigh, then immediately regrets it when Miriel raises an eyebrow at her, expression frosty. "Sorry, I didn't mean to...I just thought she of all people would be happy to see me again."

"I suppose that's a discrepancy you will have to work out with Tharja," Miriel replies. The gleam in her eye suggests she knows more than she's letting on, but Robin can also tell she doesn't have anything further to offer.

Robin sighs again, fidgeting with her sleeves awkwardly. "I should go talk to her, then. Can you...?"

Miriel nods towards Grima, whose rare display of emotion from earlier has melted into an expression of vague discomfort. "She's safe with me."

"Thanks." With that, Robin turns and dashes out the door in pursuit of her runaway friend.

She finds Tharja fairly easily, catching up with her on the library's winding staircase.

"Tharja, hold on!" she calls, then winces when a nearby library-goer gives her a sharp look. She lowers her voice to a fierce whisper. "Tharja!"

Tharja pays her no mind, trotting down the stairs with the single-minded purpose of getting away from her. Luckily, Robin has always been faster than her. She reaches out and grasps Tharja's shoulder to stop her, but recoils when the other swivels to scowl fiercely at her.

" _ Don't _ touch me," Tharja growls.

"What's going on? Tharja, it's me."

Tharja shakes her head, and the pain of betrayal is all too clear in her expression. "How dare you show your face to me after what you did."

"I don't understand--please, tell me how I've wronged you," Robin implores, distressed.

"You've forgotten already?" Tharja scoffs. "Was the promise you made that day really worth so little to you?"

Robin falters as the realization dawns on her, and she is struck with the powerful urge to kick herself. "Oh...Tharja, I'm sorry."

Tharja closes her eyes, but doesn’t make to leave again. "Save your breath."

"No--please, hear me out," Robin says. "I was just...trying to do the right thing."

Tharja purses her lips, reluctant, but eventually gives in with a small sigh. She never could say no to Robin. "Come on," she mutters, grabbing Robin's wrist and leading her into the labyrinth of book shelves. Eventually they come upon a reading area along the wall, outfitted with an a pair of armchairs and a small, round tea table between them.

There is already a person seated at one of the chairs, a book laid out on his lap and what appears to be a half-composed essay on the table.

"Um--" Robin says, but then Tharja steps forward.

"Move," is all she says, the undertones of her voice ominously deep, as if the dark energy gathering in the palm of her hand isn't already a clear enough threat.

The scholar stumbles out of his seat, alarmed, and snatches his things into his arms before scurrying away without argument.

"We could have found another spot," Robin says, feeling a little bad. Still, in a strange way, it's good to see Tharja hasn't changed too much.

"This one is the best in the library. There's no one around to bother me when I'm working--usually." Tharja sits down in the chair the scholar just vacated, and gestures at Robin to take the other.

For a moment, neither of them seems to know what to say. They spend a while simply staring at each other. Robin can see Tharja's gaze moving over her, taking everything in. She knows she looks just as she did the day they parted ways--it's as though time had stopped for her in those months she spent in whatever strange limbo she was in before she found her way back to her earthly body. Then--

"It's hard to believe you're here," Tharja says softly. She looks down, expression dark. "I thought I would never see you again."

Robin bites her lip, feeling uneasy again. It's not every day one has to answer for dying; she doesn't know what to say. Still, she tries her best. "I know I broke the promise I made--I should have at least said goodbye, but there just wasn't any time."

"You swore to me that you would come out of that battle alive," Tharja says, the barest hint of a quiver in her otherwise even deadpan.

"I know, and I wanted to, desperately," Robin says, and it is the truth. "But Tharja, you know I couldn't. I had to--"

"You had to be the hero, I know," Tharja mutters. "Even if it meant lying to me and abandoning me."

Despite that, Robin has to smile. "It takes more than that to break someone as strong as your, Tharja," she says.

Tharja inhales sharply and looks away, expression pained. "That doesn't mean I don't need you."

"I really am sorry," Robin says softly. "But look, I've found my way back to you, haven't I? I just need you to give me a chance to make it up to you."

"Don't be absurd," Tharja replies with a sniff. "You know there's nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive you for."

"...Not even dying?" Robin says with a grimace. 

"If you had really died, I would have hexed you back to life just to kill you again."

"Well, there's the Tharja I know," Robin says, chuckling. However, she pauses when she sees that Tharja isn't smiling. "Wait...you can't actually do that, can you?"

Tharja remains silent, bringing a hand up to bite on her nail.

"Hey...you're scaring me, here," Robin says. "Your magic can't actually bring back the dead, right?"

"No," Tharja finally admits. "But not for lack of trying."

"You tried to  _ bring me back to life? _ You--" Robin's voice pitches up before she remembers where she is, and she has to lower it once again. "Tharja, that is beyond reckless!"

"I tried to tether your soul to a new body, actually," Tharja corrects her calmly. "Obviously it didn't work, so what's the fuss?"

Robin opens her mouth to protest before realizing there's really nothing she can say to that. She closes it, thinks for a moment, then continues on, "Well, I guess I can't really be mad at you for trying as long as there was no harm done."

"I didn't say that." 

Robin presses her lips together, looks up towards the sky in a moment of deep contemplation, then nods in affirmation to herself. "Then I don't want to hear any more about it," she says.

Tharja shrugs, completely unfazed, and lets it end there.

"So, if you've given up on that, then what are you doing here with Miriel?" Robin asks. "I figured you would have gone home to Plegia after the war."

"I tried," Tharja says. "And that boy, Henry--when he and I returned to the Plegian Mage's Court, they called us traitors to the army and cast us out."

"What? But that war was bigger than the conflict between Plegia and Ylisse. You and Henry fought to save everyone."

"Maybe in the end," Tharja says. "But I defected to the Ylissean army during the first war--so technically, the Court was right."

"Oh...I'm sorry."

"It was worth it," Tharja says, her expression softening slightly. "For you."

Robin smiles and reaches out. Tharja's skin is ice-cold against hers, but the grip she returns is firm and gives Robin a sense of security that she hasn't felt since the last time they spoke, at the end of the war.

"I'm glad to see Chrom welcomed you to Ylisse," Robin says. "Have you joined the Shepherds?"

"Gods, no," Tharja says, looking as though Robin had just paid her the worst insult of her life. "I can't stand those idiots."

"Then--how did you end up here?"

Tharja lets out a long sigh, as if the mere act of recounting the story has drained her of what little enthusiasm for life she had to begin with. In some ways, Tharja has always been one of the funniest and most dramatic people Robin has ever met.

"I stayed in the capital for a while. I had a place in the Ylissean army," Tharja says. "But I got tired of it. That fool prince of yours--every time someone so much as mentioned your name, he looked like he would burst into tears. It was pathetic, and it wore on my patience."

Robin nods slowly, entirely unsure of how to feel about that. On one hand, she feels terrible hearing how Chrom had been affected by her parting. On the other, she can't help but be amused in a morbid way at Tharja's retelling. Tharja tends to have that effect on her.

"Is that when you came to this library?" she asks.

" _ She _ brought me here, actually," Tharja says, jerking her head up towards the upper floors. "She told me there was powerful magic in the archives here."

"Miriel was helping you try to bring me back to life?" Robin asks, incredulous.

"She needed help crafting her own spell," Tharja says with mild distaste. "I just happened to be around."

"You could have left any time you wanted, couldn't you?

Tharja's lip twists and she averts her gaze. "I suppose so."

Robin recognizes that look, the reluctance in Tharja's admission. "Oh...you stayed for her," she says, a smile spreading on her face.

Tharja bristles visibly, her entire body stiffening and pink rising to her cheeks. "Don't be absurd. You wouldn’t know anything."

Robin laughs, her whole being brimming with a sort of warmth that she hasn't felt in a long time now. "Tharja, I'm happy for you."

"Happy to be rid of me, I imagine," Tharja grumbles, but she can't hide the small smile that tugs at her lips. She looks so much lighter now, her back a little straighter than it used to be, shoulders no longer hunched.

Robin stands and hold her arms out. Tharja hesitates, expression turning pained, but when Robin waits without faltering, she eventually steps in and the two of them share a long overdue embrace.

"I missed you," Tharja mumbles into her shoulder, hugging her tightly and gripping the back of her jacket as if holding on for dear life. "I wish you hadn't left."

"I know," Robin replies, closing her eyes. "Me too."

When they pull away, Tharja gives Robin a searching look. "That...thing you brought with you," she says. "What is it?"

Robin frowns slightly at Tharja's wording. "Didn't you recognize her? She's Grima's vessel--the hierophant."

"Hardly," Tharja replies, lip curling. "I think we all spent enough time around your lesser half to recognize the darkness that surrounded her. Whatever you left up there with Miriel is nothing but an empty shell--it hardly even has a human presence."

"...I know," Robin finally confesses.

"Is that why you won't go back to the capital?" Tharja asks. "Afraid you'll be causing new problems for the princeling?"

Robin lets out a dry laugh. Tharja has always been able to see right through her. "I guess so. It's just that...the last battle I dragged him into nearly cost him his life. I don't want to put him through something like that again, especially now that he's the Exalt. I figured this was something I could handle on my own."

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it? Always trying to do everything by yourself," Tharja says.

"I do have to admit it wasn't working out quite like I wanted it to," Robin replies with a self-deprecating smile. "But I'm glad it led me to you and Miriel. If there's anyone who can help pull me through this, it's you two--if you're willing to lend a hand, that is."

"...Anything for you," Tharja says, her voice turning uncharacteristically soft for a moment, before she seems to gather herself again and cocks an eyebrow. "Just don't blame me when things go awry."

"How can you be so sure that they will?" Robin has to ask.

Tharja rises to her feet and straightens out her robes nonchalantly, clearly finished with this conversation, and shrugs as she makes her way back towards the stairs. "They always do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i......seriously love tharja. can you tell?? hope you guys are liking the story so far :,) feedback is appreciated and treated with tender love and care.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, i was having trouble reworking some parts of the story. still not happy with some of it, but just wanted to get it out and share it anyway 
> 
> (also ive been kind of lazy these past couple weeks) 
> 
> hmu @shiirasagi on twitter

They perform the first iteration of the spell a mere several days after Robin and Grima’s arrival at the library.

Miriel and Tharja stand on either side of a slumbering Grima, their hands held palm down over her as the spell sigil glows beneath her head. They intone the incantation in perfect harmony.  Despite Tharja's dark forecasts, Robin can't help but feel somewhat optimistic about the outcome.

Magical energy crackles and materializes in the air next to Grima's temples, glowing briefly with a soft light before disappearing. Grima inhales sharply as the spell ends, her body jerking slightly, but Miriel and Tharja don't look alarmed at the response.

"That was likely just a reflexive bodily response to the stimulation of her mind," Miriel explains with perfect succinctness, as always.

"Mm," Tharja agrees mildly. "Either that, or we broke it."

Robin chooses to place her faith in the former.

When Grima awakens moments later, however, everything is not as Robin hoped it would be.

"What is your name?" is the first thing Miriel asks as Grima blinks open her eyes and slowly pushes herself into a sitting position.

"Um..." Grima says softly, and Robin's breath hitches in her throat. It is the first time Grima has ever spoken--the first time Robin has heard her voice come out of her mouth untwisted by the dark aura of the Fell Dragon’s possession. It sounds different from what she imagined it to be, despite being identical to her own. It is softer, lighter. 

But it seems as though that is all Grima has to offer, for when prompted for her name again, she merely continues stuttering, clearly unable to form so much as a single intelligible word.

"I don't understand," Robin says, watching as Grima reaches out for her hand and grasps it in her own, seeking comfort in her presence as before. "Did the spell not work?"

"Obviously," Tharja says, clicking her tongue and narrowing her eyes in frustration. "We failed."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Miriel puts in, reading over some documents with a small frown on her brow. "I think we did manage to retrieve some of her memories--clearly, her speech function is starting to develop."

"Then the spell wasn't potent enough," Tharja surmises.

"No, it appears not," Miriel confirms. "I'll observe her to see if any other changes have developed, or will in the future. Tharja, I would like you to do what you can to improve upon the spell."

"Don't tell me what to do," Tharja mumbles, but doesn't exactly protest, either. She sends one last withering look towards a still-dazed Grima, then snatches up the spell along with some other documents and books and leaves the room in a huff.

"I'm sorry that didn't work the way you wanted it to," Robin says to Miriel.

"Rarely does an experiment ever perform well in the first stage of testing," Miriel says, clearly not discouraged. "Dwelling on it is pointless."

Robin concedes to that with a silent nod, then turns once again to Grima, who meets her gaze. For a moment, they merely stare at each other. Then, Robin hums thoughtfully. There is something different in Grima's eyes now; where they were once dull and often devoid of any visible emotion, Robin can now see a gleam of something else--something bright and distinctly life-like.

She hums again, absently, and then to her surprise--Grima hums back, imitating the tone of her voice perfectly.

Miriel and Robin immediately look up, exchanging shocked glances.

"You heard that, right?" Robin asks, just to confirm.

"I did," Miriel says, and she immediately retrieves a small leatherbound notebook and begins recording notes in it.

Robin turns back towards Grima. “Can you do that again?” she asks, hopeful. 

But this time Grima merely stares at her, eyes wide and bright with curiosity--either that or utter cluelessness. It’s fascinating how thin the line between the two can be. 

“Do you have any idea what that might have been?” Robin asks Miriel, and she can’t help but feel a little despondent at the way Miriel doesn’t answer or look up from her notes. 

Grima’s grip on her hand stays fast, her gaze unwavering. Robin sits down on the bed next to her and watches as Miriel continues her furious scribbling, brow furrowed in concentration and lips moving in silent dictation. 

In the midst of the quiet, the question comes to her as an impulse.

“How was Chrom? After the...the end.”  

She doesn’t expect Miriel to answer, but the mage actually pauses in her writing to glance down at Robin. A beat of silence passes, and Robin wonders if perhaps Miriel will elect to ignore the question after all, but then--

“I suppose he was about as well as he could be after having witnessed the death of his closest friend.” 

Robin coughs lightly over the pang of guilt that hits her in the chest. “So...not great, then.” 

Miriel lowers her journal. “He spent many days after the end of the war consumed with despair and guilt. He criticized himself for not being able to save you and often locked himself away in his quarters at the palace. Anyone who passed by his door could hear him crying miserably during those days.”

Robin blanches slightly, and she regrets asking. But Miriel doesn’t seem to have any intention of sparing her the details. 

“After a while, his anguish gave way to desperation, and he began searching for you. He sent parties out and usually participated himself, leaving the capital for weeks at a time,” Miriel continues. “It was only at the urgent insistence of his advisors and friends that he agreed to stop searching eventually and return to address the needs of the kingdom. That was when he tasked me with the retrieval of this spell.” 

At that, Robin lets herself feel a small measure of relief. “So he’s doing better?” 

“In a general sense of the word,” Miriel confirms. 

“And what about...” Robin hesitates. A name sits against the back of her tongue, reluctant; she has to search for it, almost as if she’d forgotten it for a moment, it’s avoided her for so long. She clears her throat. “What about Olivia? Did she...did she search for me, too?” 

Miriel gazes at Robin, her eyes narrowed in what might be scrutiny, though it’s hard to tell. “She often joined the Exalt and other search parties, yes. From what I have heard, she rejoined her old troupe after the Exalt returned to the capital.” 

“I see,” Robin murmurs, and finds it strange that all she feels at the moment is mild confusion. 

It must show on her face, because Miriel tilts her head slightly in silent inquiry. 

“You know, I’ve been getting this weird feeling ever since I came here…” Robin begins. She takes a moment to sort her thoughts, and Miriel waits patiently for her, watching her rather intently. “I feel like...I really miss everyone, but for some reason I don’t particularly get the urge to see anyone. And--this sounds bad, but--it was only after I saw you and Tharja that I even started to remember you all. I mean, it’s not that I forgot you existed, but...”

“Hm,” is Miriel’s reply. “You believe this may in some way be related to your connection with the Hierophant?” 

“I don’t really know,” Robin admits, and she glances at Grima, who has been watching her over the past few minutes of conversation. “It’s just that looking back on these past few weeks, my thoughts and priorities have been pretty much exclusively about her. Is that natural?” 

“Well, this is not the first time you have been absorbed in the task of finding an answer to a difficult question,” Miriel reasons. “Perhaps that is what she is to you.” 

“You’re not wrong about that,” Robin concedes, sending another sidelong looks towards Grima.

This time, Grima responds by smiling vaguely, the corners of her eyes wrinkling ever so slightly, before tilting her head in much the same manner as Miriel had just moments ago. 

Robin’s eyebrows go up. “She’s mimicking us again.” 

"Indeed,” Miriel concurs, and she raises her journal again. “In fact, I believe I might have an idea of just what it is we managed to achieve with the memory retrieval spell."

-:-

Over the next few days, Robin sees Grima become more and more...alive. She shows a certain curiosity towards just about everything around her, and she grows bolder than she was before, sometimes releasing Robin's hand to wander about when they go out into town. Most of all, however, she becomes more expressive. She smiles when she is pleased or when someone else smiles at her, and she frowns when she is unhappy or focused.

"It seems my initial suspicions were correct," Miriel reports to Tharja and Robin one afternoon as they watch Grima pore over a book full of landscape illustrations, smiling contentedly as she runs her fingers over the inked surface of the paper. "The spell has retrieved the most basic of her brain's functions--the ones we develop as children. I imagine as time progresses, she will eventually regain the capacity for long-term memory and perhaps be able to retrieve what she has lost on her own."

"Well, how long could that take?" Robin asks.

"I'm not sure. I don't think I would be able to accurately predict a timeline with what little information I have now," Miriel says.

"Then it could be months, or even years," Robin says.

"Spending the next several years babysitting a child trapped in an adult's body is not what I signed up for," Tharja growls at both of them.

"I know," Miriel says placatingly. There is a softness in her voice as she speaks to Tharja that Robin has never heard before. "Our best course of action for now would be to continue improving on the spell and attempt it again when it is ready. I will resume our research."

The door closes softly behind Miriel, leaving Tharja and Robin to continue their observation of Grima, who seems oblivious to their scrutiny.

"She seems so much more human now," Robin remarks almost fondly.

"It's still just a parasite," Tharja practically spits. "Always clinging to you like it thinks it owns you--if it can even think at all. It's pathetic."

Robin raises her eyebrows, alarmed at Tharja's hostility. "Tharja, you don't have to be jealous of...well, she's technically me."

"Did  _ you _ raze countless cities to the ground in your quest to cause the permanent extinction of mankind?" Tharja inquires darkly.

"Well...no." Robin sighs. "Tharja, what's all this about?"

Tharja throws a sour glance towards Grima, then leads Robin towards the other end of the room, out of earshot. They stand face to face and Tharja stares at her, eyes sharp with anxiety and something dark that Robin can’t place. 

"Robin...If that thing turns out to be just as evil as it was before, what are you going to do?" she asks.

Robin frowns. "Tharja, Grima--the real Grima--is gone."

"You think that creature was the only thing capable of evil in this world?"

Robin takes in the haunted look on Tharja's face, overshadowed only by the concern in her voice. "What's this really about?" she asks.

At first, it seems as though Tharja refuses to answer, keeping her hard gaze fixed on the floor instead of looking at Robin. However, when Robin puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, she can only hold out for so much longer before she finally gives in with a small sigh.

"Do you remember when you used to ask me about Plegia during the war?" Tharja asks. "You wanted to know more about the place you came from."

"Of course," Robin replies. "You taught me so much--even helped me grow to love some parts of Plegia, despite everything. It's how we became friends."

"The things I told you about the Grimleal--how they were all insane, and how everyone in Plegia despised them...those were lies," Tharja confesses. "I simply couldn't bear to disappoint you."

"Disappoint me?" Robin echoes. "About what?"

Tharja glances over her shoulder towards Grima, then closes her eyes for a brief moment before opening them again. "Despite what you witnessed during the war, the Grimleal weren't always the minority in Plegia--nor were they always a group of overzealous cultists. There were many among the Grimleal who believed that Grima's return to the mortal realm marked not the destruction of mankind, but its rebirth. I was raised under such a belief."

"Oh," Robin says softly. "I...I had no idea."

"People like us chose to believe that his battle with the first Exalt of Ylisse changed him, and that his centuries-long slumber was meant to purify him. We thought that his resurrection would in turn bring about the resurrection of the world."

"I can't believe I've never heard about this until now," Robin says. "We could have found allies--saved more Plegians."

Tharja scoffs. "There would have been no point. Validar and his cult was right in the end. Grima was nothing but a creature of pure evil."

"Tharja," Robin murmurs, wishing she knew what to say.

"When Grima returned to strike down mankind, it wasn't just fear that the Plegian people felt," Tharja says. "It was betrayal. Everything we believed in was a lie. And now, with Grima gone, Plegia has nothing left--but I would rather it be nothing than see another evil take root in any land on this continent."

"I can see why you would feel that way," Robin says, sympathetic.

"Then answer my question," Tharja replies, eyes hard. "If we were to bring that thing back and it went on trying to hurt people, would you kill it?"

Robin hesitates. Behind them, the rustle of pages turning and Grima's soft humming reaches her ears, and she exhales sharply.

"I would...stop her," is Robin's answer. "Without hurting anyone, if I could."

"And you think that would be enough?"

"I don't know!" Robin has to stop to reign in her frustration--at herself, at Tharja, at Grima. "But you know that I would do anything to protect you and everyone else, Tharja."

"That doesn't always turn out like we think it will, does it?"

Robin shakes her head. It isn't hard to remember that her stroke of heroism during the final battle is likely what got them all into this predicament in the first place.

"I would say all that's left for you to do now, Robin, is wait and see what happens," Tharja says, the ever-present ominous undertones in her voice particularly pronounced. "And be ready."

-:-

Weeks pass before the second version of the spell is ready to be cast. Robin spends the majority of that time with Grima, watching for changes and perhaps hoping to get a glance at what might be to come.

As they had all predicted, however, Grima's development is slow. She rarely ever speaks, except to mumble unintelligibly or attempt to imitate when someone else is saying. And as time progresses, she seems to grow even more attached to Robin, always seeking her out when she isn't around and sharing with her everything she has (books, food, the strange, useless trinkets Tharja sometimes tosses to her to entertain her and keep her out of the way).

"I’m sure it thinks you're its mother," Tharja says with a huff.

"She has no family," Robin replies, and grows to pity Grima.

At night, Grima refuses to sleep unless it is in the same bed as Robin, curled up at her side and with her face buried in Robin's chest. And sometimes, when Robin finds herself yet again unable to sleep, whether it is because she fears what she may see in her dreams or because the presence at her side is too warm, to the point of stifling, she watches Grima and wonders what sort of future she might have at the end of all of this.

Will she be alone? Surely there will be no place for her amongst the Shepherds, not after everything she's done. And the scars on her face--will anyone ever be able to accept her as she is?

Then again, Robin could see her passing them off as a gruesome consequence of the abuse a fanatical Grimleal father delivered upon his child; indeed, that would hardly be a departure from the truth. But if that means she will have to live with that ghost for the rest of her life, Robin wonders if it will be worth it.

But as the days turn into weeks, the one thing that Robin begins to find harder and harder to ignore is the singular question: What will be her name?

-:-

Robin, Tharja, and Miriel stand around the cot Grima slumbers upon, watching and waiting. If anyone were to walk in at that moment, it would seem as though there had been a death judging by the somber looks on their faces.

The second spell was cast nearly an hour ago, and Grima has yet to wake, nor has she reacted in any way to the magic.

"I'm sorry--I have to ask," Robin finally cuts through the silence, unable to contain herself for much longer. "Is this a good sign or a bad one?"

"Well, we didn't kill it," Tharja replies, sounding distinctly disappointed. "I checked."

"This may be an indication that the spell is still in the process of retrieving her memories," Miriel says. "And judging by how long it's taken, I believe we can afford to be optimistic about the results."

"Great. So if it wakes up wanting to kill us, we'll be right here," Tharja mutters.

"She won't be killing anyone. We're perfectly capable of defending ourselves," Robin says firmly. She looks at Miriel. "Besides, she'll probably be a little disoriented when she first wakes up, right?"

At that, Miriel gives a strikingly out-of-character shrug. "I cannot predict what will happen when she awakens.."

"Oh, good." Robin shifts her weight between her feet and stares back down at Grima. "That was exactly what I wanted to hear."

Outside, the sun begins to set, casting a dim orange light into the room. A frosty draft sweeps into the room with the arrival of the evening, and Robin closes the window.

"The two of you should go have some dinner," Robin says. "I'll stay here and watch over her."

"It might be more prudent if I were to remain behind and observe her, especially if her condition changes," Miriel puts in, but Robin shakes her head.

"I think she'll feel safer if I'm the first person she sees. You and Tharja deserve a break."

Tharja narrows her eyes. "Don't you dare let her do anything to you."

"I'll be fine. Go on, get out of here."

After another moment of exchanges, Tharja and Miriel finally agree, and Robin watches as they gather their things and prepare to leave. Miriel lays Tharja's winter cloak over her shoulders, picking a few stray pieces of lint away, and Tharja rests a hand briefly over hers in silent gratitude. They exchange no words, but the gentle looks they give each other warm Robin's heart.

"We will return in an hour's time to see if there has been any progress," Miriel says. "And with some sustenance for you, of course."

Robin simply smiles and waves the two of them out.

When the door closes behind them, she lets out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding and sits down at the edge of Grima's cot.

"You and I--we're always causing trouble for people, aren't we?" she murmurs, tucking some of Grima's hair behind her ear. She wonders distantly when she'd gotten used to such familiar gestures between them.

Grima slumbers on, her breathing shallow and quiet. Her lips are pale, with an almost imperceptible blue hue to them. The magic is taking its toll on her, but Robin's instinct tells her she isn't in any danger. She trusts Miriel and Tharja, no matter what they may think of Grima, to be beyond casting a harmful spell on anybody Robin cared about.

Robin tugs the bedsheets up over Grima's shoulders, hoping that will help, and pats them into place. Contrary to what her complexion suggests, Grima's body is still warm beneath the sheets.

_ We didn't kill it,  _ Tharja had reassured Robin (as disappointed as she sounded about it), but Robin can't help but be nervous about what the spell  _ did  _ do. Robin feels a little troubled to think so, but the past few weeks she'd spent with Grima had almost begun to feel normal. If Grima wakes up different, will that all change?

Robin sighs, shaking herself out of such thoughts. "It would be unfair of me to steal your past from you out of my own petty fears, wouldn't it?" She lays a hand on Grima's cheek, brushing the pad of her thumb over her scars. "You deserve to know who you are."

As the words leave her lips, a spark jumps between her skin and Grima's. Robin recoils immediately, fearing she may have accidentally interfered with the spell. But before she can do anything, Grima's eyes shoot open and she lets out a gasp like a diver surfacing from deep waters.

Robin leaps to her feet, alarmed, but can only stand and stare from there as Grima shoots up into a sitting position, clutching her head and letting out a pained groan.

A beat passes. Robin's heart pounds in her chest. Then, Grima looks up.

When their eyes meet, Robin's breath leaves her all at once. Those eyes--she knows them. It's like being in the war all over again, looking herself in the face in the last moments of the final battle; the hatred, the rage...it's all there.

And Grima recognizes her too, her expression twisting into that derisive sneer that Robin hasn't seen in so long now that it almost seems out of place, yet so familiar at the same time. "You," she growls. "What have you done to me?"

Robin's heart sinks with a regret so deep she has to laugh at her own stupidity. "Welcome back."

-:-

Robin lets out a long, tired sigh as she watches Grima flick her hand for the hundredth time, then stare down angrily at her empty palm.

"What did you do to my magic?" Grima demands.

"Nothing," Robin replies, rolling her eyes. This is nowhere near the first time they've had this exchange in the past hour or so. "You haven't used your magic in months. It'll probably take a while to recover."

"Yet yours seems perfectly intact," Grima remarks, glaring at the barrier sitting in the center of the room, separating the two of them and trapping her away from the door.

"I've had the time to bring it back. You've just been stumbling around and clinging to me like a lost puppy ever since we woke up," Robin says.

Grima bristles visibly, her shoulders tensing and her lips pulling back in a snarl. “I wasn’t clinging to  _ you _ , I was--” She stops then, eyes going wide as if realizing she’s made some sort of mistake, and goes silent. 

Suddenly, an image flashes through Robin’s mind--a glimpse of short white hair and a patient smile. Then, it is gone. 

Unsure of its origin, Robin, shakes herself off and turns her attention back towards Grima, resentment rising up in her chest. She narrows her eyes and, with hostility to match the other's, says, "Your antagonism has no place here, nor is it winning you any points. I'm the one who's kept us alive and restored your memories. And now that you're back, I could kill you at any moment if I wanted to."

"So, why don't you?" Grima challenged.

"What would be the point? Even if you regained your powers and killed everyone here, Grima is dead, and there's nothing you can do about that," Robin says with a scoff. "You've already lost."

"And yet you continue to call me by his name."

Robin frowns, the statement sitting odd with her. "What? I've never--"

"--said it aloud?" Grima scoffs. "We're the same person, remember? And now that I've been...unscrambled, I can finally understand all those troubled ruminations that have been pouring out of your head and right into mine for these past several months."

As Robin hears this, she knows it to be true; she, too, feels an impression of the other's thoughts and emotions in the back of her own mind, and she realizes in the same moment that she has for a while now. That feeling of being lost, the fear of being left alone or cast away--those had not been her thoughts alone, she realizes.

Robin sets her jaw. "So what if I’ve been calling you by his name? Isn't that what you want? You were always so proud of your loyalty to him in the first place."

"I am not Grima," the other replies through gritted teeth, the agitation in her expression surprisingly genuine. "I had a name before all of this."

"Maybe, but it's my name now," Robin spits back. "I was the one who became the person we were meant to be after you threw it away."

"...At least call me by my title," the other murmurs after a brief pause. "Grima and I may no longer be one, but my connection to him was true."

Robin's stomach churns at those words; she never knew she could feel so disgusted. Yet she sees no reason not to accept the request, for she knows it is a good chance to finally lay that ghost to rest.

"Fine," she says, and can’t help the childish way she rolls her eyes a little. "Hierophant."

The Hierophant shakes her head softly at that, looking down. "All the sacrifices I made...all those lives lost...for nothing." There is a profound sense of loss in the look she gives Robin. "You ruined everything."

Robin’s blood boils. "Don't try to act like you regret what happened. You delighted in destroying everything around you, just like him."

"I did what I had to to make a better world!" The Hierophant staggers to her feet, hands curled into fists.

Robin flinches at the Hierophant’s sudden outburst, but forces herself to remain calm. The barrier will remain intact, she reminds herself. The Hierophant is powerless.

"What kind of deranged reality do you live in that would make you think a world devoid of human life could be a better one?" Robin asks.

The Hierophant barks out a short, cynical laugh. "You wouldn't understand," she replies. "No matter how many times I tried to explain it to you."

"You're right. I  _ can't _ understand anything you're talking about," Robin retorts, “because you erased all of my memories of who I used to be!"

"That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't resisted! We could have succeeded!" the Hierophant roars, and in the wake of her voice, something crackles in the air.

Eyes widening, the two of them look down.

Energy dances in the palms of the Hierophant's hands and wisps into the air around her. Magic.

"What? I--I don't understand," Robin stutters. "You shouldn't be able to do that just yet."

A manic grin spreads over the Hierophant's face, as eerie as the day Robin first saw it all that time ago. "You and I are the same person, remember? If you have magic--then so do I." She raises her hand.

"No!" Robin cries, but she isn't fast enough to shield herself from the pulse of energy that shatters the barrier, throwing her across the room. She hits the wall with a teeth-rattling  _ crack,  _ and as pain bursts up her spine the last thing she sees before everything goes dark is that savage, cruel smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter after this might take a while, too, just a heads up. thanks for being patient and sticking with me, guys


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhoh geez...this was a little difficult for me to finish bc ive been having issues writing up to my usual standards lately but i loved this story too much to just give up on it so i hope you'll forgive any obvious faults in the writing. thanks for sticking around guys 
> 
> please enjoy!!!

_ At first, there is naught but darkness--a familiar void. She knows this emptiness well, yes.  _

_ But then, just as she begins to feel herself slip away into the black--a voice calls out to her in the distance. She hears...something. She does not recognize it, though she gets the feeling she ought to, for it is a word she is certain she has heard many times before.  _

_ The voice becomes clearer, louder. A light shines in the distance. She reaches towards it, and it fills her vision.  _

_ “My love.”  _

_ She opens her eyes and sees straight white hair, cut into a bob. A pair of dark eyes, surrounded by lines that tell of their age, look into hers, and thin lips curl into a smile.  _

_ “Silly thing. How much longer are you going to sleep?”  _

_ She opens her mouth to reply-- _

 

Robin wakes to a pounding headache, an intense, throbbing pain in her lower back, and the warm weight of someone's hand on her sternum.

A low groan escapes her as her eyes flutter open, and the first thing she sees is Tharja hovering over her, expression pinched with concern. When she notices Robin is awake, she turns.

"Miriel.”

Robin grasps Tharja's hand and moves it away gently as she pushes herself into a sitting position, ignoring the way it makes her head spin. Vague impressions of a dream she’s already forgotten linger but for an instant, flashing by too quickly for her to make any sense of. "Where is she? Where's the Hierophant?"

"Long gone. We only just got here," Tharja replies, steadying her with a firm grip on her shoulders.

"She ransacked the entire library on her way out," Miriel says, kneeling down at Robin’s side and holding a mending staff to her back. "She’s stolen a number of books and documents pertaining to Grima."

Robin inhales sharply as healing magic spills over her, sending a vaguely uncomfortable but very familiar tingling sensation across her scalp and lower back. After a short moment, the pain subsides.

"Tharja...you know what you said about how things always go awry?" Robin murmurs as she feels her muscles relax. She lies back down against the hardwood floor, waiting for her strength to return. "I should have taken it to heart. This was my fault."

"You should rest and let Miriel finish healing you," Tharja says. Then, her expression turns dark. "I'm going to find that wretch and kill it."

"No," Robin says. "It has to be me. I'll find her."

"What could she possibly hope to accomplish with those books she's stolen? Grima is already dead," Miriel murmurs, mostly to herself.

"I guess we won't know until I ask her." Robin gathers herself to her feet, swaying slightly, and puts a hand up to cut off any further protest. "I caused this and I'm the only who can fix it."

"Don't be ridiculous. She'll kill you the minute she sees you," Tharja says.

Robin manages a sardonic smile at that. "Lately, I get the feeling there's some kind of higher power out there that just won't let us kill each other."

"I've had enough of this nonsense. She’s clearly knocked all the sense out of you," Tharja snaps. "I'm going to end this once and for all.

"Hold on." Miriel frowns up at Robin, her gaze searching. "I may have an idea of where she's gone."

"Miriel!" Tharja hisses, but Miriel ignores her in favor of continuing on.

"When I first arrived at this town, I came upon an abandoned temple on its outskirts," she says. "After questioning some of the residents, I discovered it was a shrine built by a small faction of Grimleal several decades ago."

"A Grimleal shrine? Here in Ylisse?" 

“It lies on the eastern border of the village, just past the smithy. I am certain you won’t miss it--and I am sure that’s where the Hierophant has gone to seek sanctuary,” Miriel says. Then, from the holster at her waist, she retrieves a tome with a leather binding and familiar runes inked on the cover. 

Robin looks up at Miriel, at eyes bright with both concern and trust, and takes the Thoron tome. “Thank you.” 

Tharja puts a hand around Robin's wrist, gripping it loosely, and Robin gives her an exasperated smile.

"I really wish you wouldn't try so hard to stop me."

"I won’t stop you," Tharja assures her. "I know you always have to be the hero. Just make sure you don't make me wait too long this time." She turns Robin's hand up and places something in her palm.

Robin looks down, and her eyebrows go up. "...A voodoo doll. Um, thanks."

Tharja closes Robin's fingers around the tiny straw doll. "It contains enough magic to heal a mortal wound once. It was the closest I ever came to bringing you back."

"Oh...I see," Robin says softly, and she looks at the doll again. It is, predictably, crafted in her likeness--long pigtails made of simple white thread, a purple handkerchief pinned around the shoulders to represent her coat. Tharja has gifted her with such trinkets before; the habit is almost childlike in nature, and thinking about it makes Robin fond. "Thank you, Tharja. For everything--both of you."

"However this ends," Miriel says, her expression softening in a rare display of open sympathy, "I pray that it will mark the conclusion to your battle. You deserve to be freed from that once and for all."

Robin smiles and, clutching the straw doll, bids farewell to her friends.

-:-

The shrine is even smaller than she expected, built into an opening on the side of a short, grassy hill just outside of the village. If Robin didn't know any better, she would call it a cave at first glance.

A single wooden door with the Mark of Grima etched into it is the sole entrance. It hangs open, a steel padlock (wrenched open with magic, most likely) lying in the dirt in front of it.

"Okay..." Robin murmurs to herself, stopping just short of the doorway. Letting herself get entrapped in an enclosed space in an isolated area with her mortal enemy is not her idea of a great time--she needs a plan to lure the Hierophant out.

She stops to think for a moment, but doesn't get very far before a loud crackling sound resonates from within the temple, followed by a gust of energy-charged wind that hits Robin dead-on and leaves the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

"Right.” Robin blinks herself back into focus. Whatever it is the Hierophant is doing, she needs to be stopped immediately. "Forget the plan."

With thoughts only of ending things once and for all between her and the Hierophant, Robin rushes into the temple.

The air inside is cold and damp, the walls of the long, lone corridor craggy with the uneven rock of the hill's interior, undecorated and covered in dust and dirt. The deeper inside Robin moves, the closer this place seems to a hovel than a temple. It was clearly made hastily, and with the intention of keeping it a secret. She has to wonder, given what she's learned recently about the two factions of the Grimleal; were those who constructed this temple here to spread Grima's terror, or merely to seek refuge?

Robin rounds a sharp curve in the hall and stops.

Just before her, the pathway leads to a large opening. Several old cots covered in thin, moth-bitten bedsheets line the outer rim of the room, and on the wall opposite of the entrance is a shrine decorated with banners upon which the Mark of Grima is painted. 

An idol, carved from wood so dark it is nearly black, stands at the center of the shrine in a near-perfect likeness of the Fell Dragon himself, and at the foot of the shrine kneels the Hierophant, her head lowered in prayer while a large magical sigil glows faintly on the ground around her.

Robin grips her tome tightly against her chest, like a shield. “What are you doing?” 

The Hierophant lifts her head to look over her shoulder towards Robin, but doesn't say anything before turning back around and resuming what Robin now realizes is an incantation.

There are books strewn across the dirt floor, the ones the Hierophant had stolen from the library, no doubt. Robin kneels down to examine the few closest to her, and finds that many of them are written in an old Plegian language that she still has yet to master, but she recognizes several recurring words and phrases throughout.

They speak of resurrection--specifically, the many ways in which the Grimleal have sought to bring their god back from his slumber over the past 1000 years. But there is record of only one success--the awakening that occurred one year ago, which was then followed by the Fell Dragon’s subsequent defeat. This record, Robin realizes, is a handwritten draft, crafted in Miriel's own script.

Robin shakes her head softly and looks back up towards where the Hierophant continues her incantation.

"You can't bring him back, you know. He's gone for good."

For her efforts, Robin is ignored.

The sigil on the ground glows softly, its power weak. She recognizes the parts of it that aren't covered by the Hierophant’s figure--it's an anchoring sigil, the one Robin had caught a glance of before amongst Tharja's notes.

Robin takes slow steps forward while her mind races.  _ Stall _ , she tells herself.  _ Figure out a way to handle this without letting any more people get hurt _ .

"You know, even if he was still alive, I doubt he has a soul that you could tether to this world."

Without turning towards her, the Hierophant draws a dagger from within her robes, raising it threateningly. "See what happens if you take one more step."

Robin stops, clutching her tome in a painfully tight grip. "Fine, I won't move. I'm just trying to tell you that spell has already failed once."

The Hierophant scoffs. "Do you want to know why that  _ witch _ failed to cast this spell?” 

“Don’t call her that,” Robin snaps, bristling. 

The Hierophant ignores her and continues on. “It's not that she couldn't, or that the spell was flawed--it's that she didn't  _ want _ to once she discovered what it costs."

An intense discomfort settles deep in Robin’s gut. Her lip trembles, but she steels herself. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"This spell requires an exchange: the surrender of one soul for the return of another," the Hierophant says. "Your friend was too afraid to cast her sould away in order to call yours back."

"I would say that was a choice well made, considering current circumstances," Robin mutters. Interestingly enough, this doesn’t come as much of a surprise to her. "But even if that were true, thousands of people have offered themselves up as sacrifice to Grima. You know it's not that simple."

"Those imbeciles were never worthy to be his sacrifice."

"And you are?"

For once, the Hierophant seems to be at a loss as a tense silence settles between them. In the seconds that pass, every breath Robin takes seems too loud, feels too difficult. 

Finally, the Hierophant rises to her feet and turns to face Robin. "I carry the blood of Grima. When he hears my call, he will take this body, and I will have fulfilled my duty as his vessel."

"No, you won't." Taking advantage of the opening, Robin darts forward and clamps a hand around the Hierophant’s wrist, twisting it until the dagger falls from her grip and raising her hand so that they can both see the bare skin there. "Look! The mark is gone because  _ he _ is gone. Why can't you just accept that already?"

"Because he still left his mark upon me!" The Hierophant thrusts a finger towards her own face, at the scars marring her cheeks. Her calm veneer shatters as her expression twists with anguish, and she wrenches her arm from Robin’s grip. At her feet, the sigil's light wanes until it disappears completely. "What am I supposed to do from here, try to start over? Do you think anyone in this land would accept me as anything less than a monster with a face like this?"

"There would be someone, somewhere," Robin says, and knows it is only a weak excuse. 

“That's easy for you to say," the Hierophant replies with a sneer. "You already have a family. That Child of Naga--the one everyone in this land praises as the Exalt--he would do anything for you, despite knowing who you are. But me?" She lets out a loud, spiteful laugh. "He would order me executed the second he saw me."

"That's not true. Chrom is merciful."

"Oh, spare me. There's a reason why you were too afraid to go to the capital all this time. You knew that I would never earn the forgiveness of the people," the Hierophant says, and if Robin hadn't been watching, she would have missed it--that flash of sorrow in her dark eyes. "You may believe that Grima is gone, but as long as I still live, he will never die in their eyes."

Robin swallows around the knot in her throat. "And your solution is to go crawling back to him? Running away doesn't solve anything--especially when you're running yourself right into a dead end."

"As if you've ever done any differently," the Hierophant spits back. "This all happened because you thought you could escape your destiny."

"I  _ fought _ it," Robin shot back. "And I won."

The Hierophant's expression changes then, twisting into something akin to smug amusement; but underneath that, Robin catches a glimpse of envy in the way her lip curls.

"Fine," the Hierophant says, her demeanor once again falling into that eerie calm from earlier. "If you want to stop me, then you'll have to kill me again--for good, this time."

Then, without warning, the Hierophant lunges towards Robin.

Robin reacts on reflex: magic courses into her hand, charged by the Thoron tome still in her grip, and before she can stop herself she lashes out--

The Hierophant collapses against her with a small gasp.

Robin staggers under their combined weight, and together they topple onto the floor. Her head collides with the dirt ground, sending pain shooting through her skull and snapping her out of her daze.

Robin scrabbles out from beneath the Hierophant and, blinking away the spots in her vision, turns the other's limp figure over to assess the damage.

Electrical residue from the spell crackles around the gaping hole in the Hierophant's stomach, the air between them filing with the stench of charred flesh. There is almost no blood, the wound having been cauterized in the same instant it was inflicted by the heat of the electricity. The sensation of deja vu makes Robin's stomach heave.

"Why would you do this?" Robin gasps, hysterical. Her thoughts race wildly out of control, leaving her mind blank and her head spinning as panic rises.

The Hierophant, on the other hand, looks completely calm. Her face has already grown dangerously pale, eyes glassy as they lose focus. "Because I knew you would be too much of a coward to do it yourself," she murmurs, and even now has the strength to quirk the corner of her mouth up in a self-satisfied smirk.

"This wasn't supposed to happen--no one was supposed to get hurt!” A sob wracks her chest, and her eyes burn with the threat of tears.  

"Then you lose," the Hierophant replies. Her eyelids flutter once, twice, then close. Her voice comes out as a faint whisper. "This is...my victory."

"Was proving me wrong really worth  _ dying for _ ?" Robin surges magic into her hands, but it sputters and dies out. Frustration flares against the frayed edges of her sanity and she swears she sees red for a second. 

Then, an image flashes in her mind--a familiar one now of a woman she’s seen before, with white hair--

The image dies. 

Robin jolts as she gets thrown back to the present, and at that moment, all of her thoughts freeze to make way for a single lucid memory: the charm Tharja gifted her with.

Robin thrusts her hand into her robes, searching frantically for the tiny straw doll. Below her, the Hierophant lets out one last broken gasp before her eyes roll back into her head and she goes limp.

"No--no, no," Robin groans. Then--she finally grasps the charm, wrenches it out, and holds it over the Hierophant's body. "If nothing else, I still need answers from you."

The spell activates with a surge of power, sending magic spilling into the Hierophant's body. Robin reels at the rush of energy thickening the atmosphere, her vision blurring as the pounding pain from her collision with the ground returns with a vengeance. Still, she keeps her grip firm around the charm and wills herself to hold out.

Then, in the next moment, it ends. Robin grunts as the magic dispels and air rushes into her lungs. The straw doll falls from her hand, empty now, and Robin brings her vision back into focus.

The Hierophant lies as she was, unmoving, but the wound in her stomach is gone--as if it were never there. When Robin puts a hand against her neck, she feels a faint, fluttering pulse.

A relieved, somewhat delirious laugh bubbles out of her, and as it does she feels all of her strength leave her at once. Drained, she tumbles bonelessly onto the ground next to the Hierophant.

For a few short moments, she keeps a shaky grip on consciousness, and watches the Hierophant sleep. 

It’s a familiar sight now--the other’s relaxed expression, the pale scars prominent against her complexion, but not harshly so. Robin almost expects her to open her eyes and smile sleepily at her, as she’s done so many times in the past few months. 

Fondness swells in her chest, but brings with it a deep, aching remorse. Robin wishes she could just forget everything that’s happened. Softly, and knowing it will be the last time, she reaches up weakly and cups the Hierophant’s cheek in her hand. 

“I’ll fix this,” she murmurs. “I won’t let you get hurt again.” 

Then, Robin closes her eyes and sleeps. 

-:-

_ She counts the pieces on the board and comes up short.  _

_ “Oh, my...Are we missing one?”  _

_ She looks up at the woman sitting across from her and feels a rush of affection she cannot explain. I know you, she wants to say, but her voice doesn’t seem to be working. Without knowing why, she reaches forward.  _

_ The woman takes her hand, skin cool and dry against hers.  _

_ “Good idea. Let’s look for it together.”  _

_ She stands, feet shuffling against worn hardwood. This room is small, but not oppressively so. It feels warm here--safe. She wants to stay.  _

_ But the woman is leading her towards the door. A light shines from behind the door, spilling in through the cracks.  _

_ Wait, she tries to say, but can’t.  _

_ The door opens and the light, blinding in its purity, engulfs them; the woman’s hand slips out of hers. She stumbles forward, reaching, but feels nothing.   _

_ She is lost.  _

-:-

They wake side by side.

When their eyes meet, Robin sees herself: lost, uncertain, and empty. A blank sign with no direction. It is an old version of herself, an image that lies deep amongst some of her first memories, and one that she never thought she would see again.

This version of Robin lets out a small sigh and rolls onto her back. "You just couldn't let me go."

Robin shrugs. "I’ve been told letting go is not one of my strengths."

The Hierophant runs her hand over the tear in her clothes where the Thoron spell had impaled her, and over the newly formed skin there. Then, she glances towards Robin, running her gaze over her torso. "You weren't affected."

"No," Robin says. "I get the feeling we've been two separate entities ever since we woke up. The first time, I mean."

"Mm," is the Hierophant's only reply. She stares up at the ceiling, thinking, and Robin feels a vague impression of a jumble of thoughts that she can't quite decipher, but gets a good general idea of.

"You think you're nothing without Grima, but that's not true," Robin says. "You're still here, even now that he's gone, and that means something. It has to."

The Hierophant turns to look at Robin, her dark eyes searching. "You know, you sound just like her."

The image that blooms in her mind is clearer now than it ever was. Robin sees a familiar white bob, a dark coat resting on narrow shoulders, a pair of rectangular spectacles resting across the bridge of thin nose. A fond smile. 

"What was she like?" Robin asks. “Your mother.” 

The Hierophant absently strokes a finger over the frayed fabric of her jacket and doesn't reply for several long seconds. 

Then,

"She believed I deserved better than the destiny that had been thrust upon me. It's why she stole me away from Validar, so that we could live a normal life together. She was kind and...paranoid, but with reason. The days I spent growing up with her were the best of my life."

The sincerity Robin senses in the Hierophant’s voice is different from the zealousness with which she speaks of Grima; yet still, she detects a hint of resentment. "Why did you go back to Validar?"

"Because my mother's love for me was a selfish one that made me weak and blind," the Hierophant replies, her voice growing hard. "Taking me away from Validar didn't stop him from doing everything he could to fulfill his agenda. It just made him all the more reckless and destructive in his ways."

"It's not her fault for making that decision," Robin says. "Any mother would have done the same."

The Hierophant scowls at Robin, but there's no real spite in her gaze. "Contrary to what you may believe, I know it is my own weakness that caused all of this.

"No matter where we went, we could see the scars of Validar’s presence in this world: villages torn asunder, innocent people slaughtered and bled dry in sacrifice to Grima--children snatched from their dying parents’ hands and corrupted with twisted, evil magic in the hopes that one of them might become a suitable vessel to Grima."

Robin swallows thickly and thinks about Aversa, of the profound anguish and horror in the other’s eyes as she’d learned the truth of her own past. How many others like her had there been?

"I'd grown to hate Validar over the years. That hatred festered inside of me until all of my waking thoughts were consumed by him, how much I wanted to end him, to stop him from hurting anyone else," the Hierophant says, her gaze growing distant. "But my mother wanted to keep running. She knew how powerful he was and that he was growing more powerful still, and she was terrified of him. Yet oddly enough, the more she spoke of his power, the clearer it became to me that he was not the one she truly feared."

Images start to bleed together, colors muddying each other out like spilled paint on a canvas, but others remain intact. Robin sees the mark of the Fell Blood on the back of her hand and the bright gleam of distress in her mother’s eyes, only to see her mother avert her gaze, hands clasped together and thin fingers twisting against each other. 

"Grima," Robin murmured. 

The Hierophant blinks up at the ceiling, lost in her recollections. "After that revelation came to me, the idea followed shortly after...I thought that if I became Grima's vessel, I could control him and use the power he gave me to destroy the Grimleal and kill Validar," the Hierophant says. She lets out a sardonic laugh, face twisted with shame and remorse. "But the second I heard his voice...I lost myself to him. There was never a chance that I would become anything other than his puppet."

Robin turns to look at the Hierophant, at scars twisted in a vivid image of misery.

"You know...it took a while, but I'd say the strings have been pretty thoroughly cut now," Robin says. "If that's any consolation at all."

"It's not," the Hierophant replies flatly, and Robin can’t blame her for it.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Robin asks, hating that she already knows the answer.

"...Validar found her not long after I joined him," the Hierophant replies. "He killed her right in front of me, and Grima watched through my eyes and reveled in her demise. I couldn't go back to her even if I wanted to."

"There's still another option.” Robin hesitates. Then, "Do you trust me?"

"Do you really have to ask?" the Hierophant says with a sneer, but then her expression falls slightly. "Not that you’re giving me a choice."

Robin lets out an exasperated huff. It’s hardly the answer she was hoping for, but it’s better than nothing. With a quiet sigh, she rests her head against the hard ground and closes her eyes. 

A beat passes.

"So, are you going to get us out of this awful place now, or what?"

"You know, that was the plan," Robin admits. "But right now I'm just...too tired."

"...Yeah," the Hierophant agrees quietly. "Me too."

-:-

The port at Southtown bustles with activity beneath the early morning sun. Gulls circle over the sea, calling to each other and scavenging for food. Below, stout seamen load cargo onto their ships' holds and fishermen haul in nets bursting with their catches of the day.

On the docks, Robin and the Hierophant say their goodbyes.

"So, your genius 'idea' was to banish me to a far-off land," the Hierophant says, nodding approvingly. "Cruel, uncalled for, and most definitely a severe overreaction. I like it."

Robin laughs at that. "I'm not banishing you. This is your chance at a fresh start," she says. "No one will know you--those scars on your face won't mean anything. You'll get to be yourself again."

"Hm. I have doubts about that last part," the Hierophant replies. "You already took that from me."

Robin isn't sure whether to feel guilty or indignant.

"Robin."

She looks up.

"Our mother gave us that name," the Hierophant says. "She believed that birds were the freest creatures on this earth, and that we deserved that, too. Remember that."

"I will," Robin promises, grateful. She glances out towards the ship she'd booked passage on for the Hierophant. It's a trade ship, with a number of stops outside of the continent.  "What do you think you'll do once you land in...wherever it is you end up?"

The Hierophant's brow furrows in contemplation. "You mentioned that we are separate now, but there's still this...connection between us."

Robin cocks an eyebrow. "What, not appreciating that we can basically hear each other's thoughts all time?"

"I want what you said to be true--that we're each our own person. I'll make it true, if that's what it takes," the Hierophant replies. "And maybe once that happens, I'll feel a little more at home with the new name you've so graciously bestowed upon me."

Robin smiles at that. "I hope so."

The Hierophant opens her mouth as though to say something, then frowns in hesitation. Her gaze drifts out towards the sea before she asks, "When you are reunited with the Exalt...will you tell him about me?"

"Of course," Robin says. "I’m sure he'll forgive you in time."

"He doesn't have to--and neither do you," the Hierophant replies. "I think in the end, I just wanted someone to know."

From the dock, the ship sounds its horn, signaling its nearing departure. The Hierophant gathers her things: a trunk full of clothes and a knapsack containing money and a tome. Robin can't help but wish she she could have given her more.

"That nauseating look of sympathy is not the last thing I wanted to see on your face," the Hierophant says, and she smirks when Robin lets out an offended scoff. "That's better…take care, Robin."

"You, too," Robin says. 

As she watches the Hierophant walk away, she lets the wind carry her final parting words towards the past she never had, and the future she never will.

"Farewell, Morgan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before anyone tries to burn me for naming a town "southtown" just know that its the actual name of the town where the prologue in awakening takes place :,) 
> 
> thank you guys so much for reading this i really hope you enjoyed the ride ;v;


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